Fortitude
by chrissyleena
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan faces a different kind of Harrowing. / Because that walk-stumble-treck after 'In Your Heart Shall Burn' had such a huge impact on me since the first time I played through the game. Also, another piece of the One-shot challenge.


**Fortitude**

 **Summary:** Inquisitor Lavellan faces a different kind of Harrowing. / Because that walk-stumble-treck after 'In Your Heart Shall Burn' had such a huge impact on me since the first time I played through the game. Also, another piece of the One-shot challenge.

 **Genre:** Angst, Hurt/Comfort

 **Disclaimer:** All Bioware, duuuuh.

 **Author's Note:** Very short, but then again, that's the point, isn't it? **  
**

* * *

Her body still moves.

Movement means warmth. Warmth means there is purpose. What purpose?

She keeps moving.

From somewhere, there is a thought. A decision. Her eyes open a fraction.

White. Darkness. Dark whiteness? It's so bright, the blackness suffocates her. She wants to breathe and the body obeys, but it's only more pain, more agony. Something moves and then there is an arm, a gloved hand, somewhere in front of her eyes, blocking her. Shielding her?

The legs still move, like a curious mechanical doll that keeps moving and moving, without intent. There is no sound. Everything around her is a roar, numbing, deafening. She can't hear. She can't see either.

She keeps moving.

The wind changes direction and her mind rewinds. She has a mind. She has thoughts; she thinks. Why does she move?

The pain lessens and suddenly there are more thoughts than before. She has a purpose. There is a reason. For one moment, there is clarity. She has a purpose, a reason for moving. For breathing and thinking and seeing and listening.

The howl returns with vengeance and once more she ceases.

.

Her body still moves.

Movement means something. Something...something important. It means she is still alive. She lives? She lives. And she thinks and she breathes and the howl changes. It's the wind and the wolves and wolves are important. Wolves have purpose.

Why did her legs stop? Something blocks her path. Something blocks her purpose. Something stops her from getting...somewhere else. A destination. A goal. Something that matters, but she simply does not remember.

She keeps moving.

.

Her body still moves.

From one moment to the other, the wind stops. Now there's a crunching sound, rythmic and repetitive. And another one, just as often, but wheezing. It comes with agony but it's the good kind because she's breathing and breathing means living. She's alive. Her mind returns, slowly, bursting back a fraction with every crunching sound.

She is heading somewhere, that she remembers. Nothing behind her, she knows that too. Trying to think of what's behind her brings new pain, a different kind of pain, from even deeper inside her chest. Why does it hurt? But she can't remember; can't drag up a single image or sound or word. Names, shouldn't there be names? A name, where is her name?

Her lips, what's wrong with her lips? Words, she needs words, words to remember, but she can't feel her lips and her will is weak. The desperation is cold, so cold, but it's still warmer than everything else.

It's hard to open her eyes, something cold and hard traps them but her desperation is warm and the pain is but a sting. She sees, she _sees_ , and there is black and swaying flecks of _greenlightglowing_. She blinks, slowly, and the flecks gain sharpness and she suddenly knows they are snowflakes and the light is her own. She wills her arm to move and the light comes into focus, shining forth from the hole in her glove, the hole in her hand, _the hole in the sky_.

The jagged line shimmers and pulses. The color, the light, they mean something. They mean loss and pain and longing, and finding a home. Carving lines into wood, watching children play, making poultices and healing teas. Faces float into her memory. Curves of vallaslin and freckles on a cheek. Frowns and laughing lines and the twist of a scar on a lip. There are sounds too; the rhythmic click of a crossbow, the dull pound of a shield slamming into flesh, the slice of a blade. And snapping heels and voices calling out: 'Herald.'

The word echoes in her mind, swirls along with the image of the _greenlightglowing_ flecks. The Herald, that's her. She's the Herald of...something. Her hand comes into focus and suddenly she _knows_. The hole in her hand, the hole in the sky and the word twist together, form an image that she understands with frightening clarity.

She lowers her arm again, the purpose spilling forth, reaching into every inch of her body, filling her entire existance.

And she keeps moving.

.

Her body moves with purpose.

As the flecks turn from dark to grey to green around her she pushes forward; the snow that reaches up to her thighs a hindrance she overcomes with every step. Her head is tucked low, chin hidden in the wooly scarf around her neck. The wind has picked up again, covering the wheezes of her labored breathing. With every inch that she crawls forward, her purpose gains depths. Sounds and images return to her, slowly, one by one.

Step by step she pushes until the movement gets easier. Step by step the flecks of snow grow calmer, fewer, until they are gone. She raises her chin, raises her eyes, raises her spirit. A shape looms in front of her, something that does not fit the monotony of the snow. It beckons to her with hope and as she moves closer she reaches out. The blackened wood is warm underneath her glove and she understands why it is not covered in snow.

Hope sings, her heart soars. Her purpose is close.

Her will is indomitable and makes her body straighten up again. She is more than her body, more than the cold, more than the hole in her hand, the hole in the sky.

And she keeps moving.

.

Her body moves with purpose and her heart soars with hope.

The pain and the cold claw at her body, at her mind, but the voices keep her safe and the images lend her warmth. Names still elude her, but she remembers the faces, remembers their meaning. The lines of vallaslin mean safety, the freckles are innocence. Frowns are worry; worry for her, worry for the children. The laughing lines are joy, and fun and relief. The scar on the lip is warmth and gratefulness and genuine surprise.

In her mind, the crossbow chimes its _tat-tat-tat_ and it is kinship; the dull sound of a shield hitting a body keeps her honest and the slice of blades channels rage into something better, something worthwhile. They are her family and her home and her purpose and she understands with renewed clarity that she has to return to them.

She raises her head and through the darkness she sees a star, a sun, calling out to her, beckoning her. She can feel the fire on her face, lighting her up in flames, bathing her in heat. The hope in her heart explodes and her spirit leaps, leaps forward, reaching ever forward towards the star, the light in the darkness.

Her legs move, shake away the icy coldness of despair. Her arms, renewed with fire, are raised up high, move in sync with her legs. Her eyes are open now, alight with flames and piercing the distance.

She walks, she runs, she leaps.

In the distance, over the wind, she hears voices; voices calling out a name, voices calling out in triumpf and relief and joy. The sun is so close now, she can smell it and feel it on her skin. It's her fire, her heat, her goddess, guiding her home. Her duty is fullfilled.

And her body stops moving.

.

Her body falls.

Her spirit ascends.


End file.
